


Hasenpfeffer

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Courtship, Food, M/M, Music, Yet Another First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 21:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4761842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an attempt at writing a rather different style of "Mycroft in charge." It's not dom/sub, really. It's courtship, and I hope it's courtship that's plausible for both men==and very non-standard for those who expect the dating thing and the usual steps of courtship. It all unfolds a bit differently because Mycroft is a bit different from your average clubber--and Lestrade is insanely good at adapting to the needs and vagaries of Holmeses. </p><p>It's also moderately graphic. If you're not on with my more graphic numbers, you're warned.</p><p>Have fun, mes enfants. XD</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hasenpfeffer

“Stop, Inspector.” Mycroft’s eyes were cool and calm, and ever so slightly sardonic. He smiled—such a tiny, dry smile—drier than James Bond’s martini. “No, don’t sulk. It’s nothing to do with your appeal. Were I even remotely willing to complicate my life in that way, I’m sure you’d be at the top of the list of those under consideration. But I’m not, and even if I were…” He shrugged. “Be careful what you wish for, Lestrade. I don’t think you’d much enjoy the reality of a relationship with me.”

Lestrade, feeling like he’d just been dragged naked over a long mile of Velcro hooks laid over boulders and strewn with cactus, scowled, and looked away. Mycroft’s comment felt far too much like a mother trying to turn a child from some ill-considered ambition: jumping off the roof with a towel for a cape, expecting to fly, for example. Or perhaps walking to China for summer vacation.

“Don’t think all that well of yourself, then?” His soul needed tit for tat, some payback for the dismissal. He didn’t get it—Mycroft just scoffed, softly.

“No, Inspector. I don’t—not in this context. While I may be more adept than my poor brother, I’m far from being a pleasant or amusing companion.” He pondered, all logic and objective consideration, then added, “Not a terrible lover, physically, though often a bit controlling and selfish. But on the whole capable. Just not pleasant to associate with for any period of time. You’re much better off giving it a miss.”

“No skin off my nose,” Lestrade said, with a shrug. “Just seemed like…” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head, trying to clear visions from his mind. He licked his lips. “It just seemed like it might be…worth our time. But if you’re not interested, you’re not.”

He’d gathered his paperwork and coat and started for the door of Mycroft’s office, when the other man said, more gently than before, “Interest is not precisely the point, Lestrade. It’s more a matter of you being outrageously better off if I do not take too much interest, or attempt expression if I did. I’m afraid you’ve discovered my secret weakness. I tend to do nothing by halves. Sherlock assures me I’ve even found a way to be immoderately moderate, though the logic escapes me. I’ve been lucky—most of the relationships I’ve forged have been more pragmatic than emotional, to the advantage of all concerned. But I’ve seen enough of myself to know—If I were to engage in a relationship with anyone who truly attracted me, I’d soon be that crazy stalker ex who leaves dead bunny-wabbits on the doorstep and terrorizes your new boyfriends.” His tone was light—ironic, even flip, but it was only cover for an intensity that moved, supple and serpentine, under his cool professional façade.

Lestrade turned and looked back, briefcase handle clutched in both hands, so the leather satchel shielded his crotch. Not that he needed it. The picture Mycroft painted was too frightening to allow a hard-on to survive, even if it had a good head start. He blinked, and thought, then said, slowly, “You’d be one hell of a scary Glenn Close.”

“Yes.”

“You do know that’s assuming I’d break off with you?”

“You would. I’d be just as scary before a breakup. I tend to….over-commit. That has seldom been a problem professionally. I can compensate in some ways, and in others it’s an outright asset. In relationships, not so much.”

Lestrade thought of how constant Mycroft was in his love for his difficult younger brother. How patient—and how implacable. He nodded. “All right.” He took a deep breath, and said, “If you ever change your mind, let me know?” Even with the warning, the thought of attempting something with Mycroft Holmes tempted him—the notion dangled like a shiny cut-glass prism making kaleidoscopic rainbows in his head. Or his heart. Or something. He wasn’t sure what…

Mycroft gave a terse little nod. “If I change my mind, you’ll be the first to know.”

Lestrade wasn’t quite sure if that was a promise or a threat. Whichever, it was all the assurance he thought he’d get. He nodded a brief goodbye and left, and set the entire conversation aside to be forgotten quickly. Or at least as forgotten as such dialogs with those we truly care about ever are. Which was to say that in the hustle of daily life, in the chaotic shuffle that had come after his divorce, in the tempestuous days after Sherlock’s apparent suicide, he seldom thought about it. But when he lay alone at night, and his mind drifted to futures he wished he could have, and kisses he wished he’d been able to steal, he remembered all too vividly, and his cock would stir at the memory of Mycroft Holmes saying, “I tend to do nothing by halves.”

 

The divorce became a thing of the distant past. Sherlock returned. So, for a time, did Moriarty—or at least, he appeared to. Life went on.

Lestrade met regularly with Mycroft. It was a professional thing, though the connection with Sherlock always added an intensely personal element for both men. Still, they were at ease with their own boundaries, and well-used to defending their hearts. At least, that’s what Lestrade made of it all. Week after week, month after month, they met, discussed a range of issues, from smuggling going through the Port of London, to terrorists installed in offices in Canary Warf, to Sherlock’s roller-coaster relationship with John and Mary Watson and their daughter. They’d drink tea, nibble biscuits purchased at one of the best bakeries in London, then finish up and be done with it till next week. Until the week Mycroft Holmes, never showing by so much as a twitch that he’d shifted gears, concluded a bit of business, downed the last of the tea in his cup, picked wistfully at a few shortbread crumbs, and said, “Would you like to join me for dinner at mine on Friday night, Inspector?”

Lestrade’s heart leapt, thudded, seemed to perform some intricate, almost painful shimmy. He made himself stop and breathe, then asked, warily, “Business or social invite?”

“Social.”

Lestrade looked up, studying Mycroft’s face, and was disturbed that Mycroft studied him as intently. “Erm….” He looked for words to ask what he needed to know. Words seemed hard come-by all of a sudden. “Uh…Having a party?’

Mycroft’s eyes suddenly laughed. One corner of his mouth flicked in a small smile. “A party for two.” His voice wasn’t tastelessly vampy, but there was something in it that did not fall under the heading “Platonic.”

Lestrade licked his lips, nervously. “Thought you didn’t do this sort of thing.”

Mycroft lifted on shoulder in a Gallic shrug. “Consider yourself the first to be told otherwise.”

Lestrade felt the terror burn. Felt the desire burn, too. “Ah.”

“Yes. It’s a risk. I am no less obsessive and given to excess than previously.”

Lestrade nodded like a drugged, hypnotized dope. “Uh. Yeah.” Then he scraped what little wit and courage he had together, and said, “Yeah. Ok. Formal dress, or fancy casual, or what?”

There was a light in Mycroft’s eyes that suggested he’d be welcomed at the door in nothing but skin and a gaudy ribbon, but the man said, “Wear what you find comfortable and attractive.”

Lestrade nodded. He picked up his papers. He packed them away. He stood. He walked to the door. He opened it. He almost stepped out, then closed it again, turning. “When?”

Mycroft smiled—another warm smile that actually bloomed behind his pale eyes. “Will half-seven be convenient?”

“Yeah. Anything I should bring? Wine? Beer?”

“Do you have a favorite cider?’

“Midsomer Abbas sweet. Like it?”

Mycroft cocked his head, and said, “I’ve not tried that one. By all means, then: a jug of Midsomer Abbas.”

Lestrade nodded once more, and walked out the door, and kept walking for half an hour, when he realized he’d left his car in the car park and failed to call a cab.

He spent the rest of the week in an agony of terror and delight.

 

“Welcome, Inspector.”

“Greg,” Lestrade said, trying to hold back a shiver as he inched through the door of Mycroft’s Pall Mall flat. The rooms themselves had the very scent of Mycroft—and of Mycroft’s hopes. There was a faint scent of wood burning in the little fireplace insert, and resinous candle wax from the candles lit around the flat. Something rich and homey, smelling of meat and tomato and potato and vegetables added another layer of sensual desire to the air.

Lestrade, poleaxed by the tasteful but unmistakable aura of pending seduction, blindly shoved his hand forward, the glass cider jug hanging from one finger.  “Here. This is one of their good lines. Not expensive, but good. Not too sweet, but the fruit’s still strong in it.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, collecting it and moving quickly toward the kitchen.

The man was dressed in clothes Lestrade would never have imagined…mainly because Lestrade was not the sort of man to spend all that much time browsing men’s magazines looking for fashion pointers. He was not without taste, but he was without budget, and his social circle had very little patience with hoity-toity social climbing. For all practical purposes one could say he didn’t get out much.

Mycroft, though, had gone out, and studied. Hard. He wore a shirt of heavy twill silk, matte-finished with the faintest shimmer when it moved under the warm, dim lights of the flat. A beautiful belt of leather, so fine Lestrade knew there had to be words to describe it, but they were all words he didn’t know, just as he didn’t know the vocabulary of the fine shoes on Mycroft’s long feet. Of the trousers all Lestrade could say was that they made him think of Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly—cut loose and easy, yet somehow swinging and clinging, showing off the line of Mycroft’s thighs and the ease of his gait.

Lestrade had opted for basic chinos, an oxford shirt open at the throat, and little more. He knew better than to try for more than that. Still, he felt comfortable. Not underdressed so much as quieter in his tastes, he thought.

As though drawn by a tractor beam, he followed the other man to the kitchen. The table was set—the kitchen table, not the formal table he could see in a room beyond.

“It’s too stuffy and far too big,” Mycroft said without Lestrade having to ask. “I use it for negotiations, and for the rare soiree when I have to make nice with Foreign Office associates and their foreign counterparts. For two, though, it’s merely the excuse for a bad cartoon as I lob the dinner rolls the length of the table to you with a badminton racquet.”

“This is be’er,” Lestrade said, swallowing his Ts in shock and excitement.

Mycroft drew a lushly enameled cast iron braising pan out of the oven. “Mutton stew,” he said. “Prince Charles has been supporting the return of mutton, and I’ve found I quite like some of the old recipes.” He added a loaf of bread on a cutting board, a bowl of fruits, another bowl with a chopped salad, and a chubby little earthenware crock of sweet butter.

“We can wait, of course. But I thought eat first—then settle in the sitting room?” Mycroft clearly had things planned. Lestrade, hearing the unstated transitions stretching out through the evening in that calm statement, nodded.

“Dinner now is fine,” he said. “Anything I can do?”

“You can sit,” Mycroft said, with amused tartness.

Lestrade did.

Dinner unfolded before him. The stew was rich and meaty and complex, without ever stretching over the edge into exotic or inedible. The bread might have been homemade. If it wasn’t, Lestrade wanted the name of Mycroft’s baker. The cider went perfectly with the stew.

“My butcher was able to order mutton from one of the farms near Midsomer Abbas,” Mycroft said, casually. “I wanted to be sure the terroir matched your offering.”

Lestrade nodded. He knew enough about wine to know what terroir meant. He’d never had a meal selected to ensure the terroir matched. He was afraid to ask if the baker had used flour grown and milled in Midsomer, or the butter been churned from Midsomer cows.

“It’s delicious,” he said, instead.

It was. It was the sort of satisfying, simple, filling food that gladdens the soul.

They finished with apples and walnuts. Lestrade knew a Midsomer Abbas Pippin when he tasted one. He did not comment. He did stop and marvel at the depth of care Mycroft had put into just this simple meal—how hard he’d worked to turn the meal into a perfect frame for a plain jug of sweet cider from Lestrade’s ancestral county.

“To the sitting room?” Mycroft said, having cleared away the dishes quickly. “I have a bottle of distilled cider. It’s intended as an aperitif, but it’s more like a clean cider brandy than a liqueur. It should be quite pleasant as a finishing touch to the evening.”

Lestrade nodded, and risked a grin. “Apple wood logs on the fire, then, I suppose?’

Mycroft laughed, eyes lighting. “Alas, I could find none. Pine, I’m afraid, to go with the pine candles. But I did look.”

“Color me unsurprised,” Lestrade said, smiling. He followed his host to the sitting room. “Not taking any chances,” he said, noting the dense sheepskin in front of the insert stove and the sofa set squarely facing the fire. A guest would have no doubt where it was hoped he’d sit—or much doubt where it was hoped he might land after a few glasses of apple aperitif.

“None,” Mycroft said, with some remorse. “I did warn you. You honestly can’t say I didn’t.”

“No—fair and square. You told me going in. Does it stay this tight-knit?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never…” He looked away, bashful and uneasy. “I’ve only attempted this occasionally. It seldom works even the first time. People find it too…intimidating.” He glanced at Lestrade. “Yes. I do know the definition of insanity: doing something that did not work over and over in the hope that this time it will. But—“ He shrugged again. “This is me. Anything else would be misleading, I’m afraid.”

Lestrade smiled, and went to the little cherry-wood drop-leaf table that stood behind the sofa. He opened the bottle of aperitif, and poured out two glasses without asking, returning to hand one to Mycroft. “If nothing else, it’s flattering,” he said, smiling. “I don’t think anyone’s ever worked this hard to impress me before.”

“Is it working?” Mycroft sounded both hopeful and amused. At least he had a sense of humor about his own peculiarities…

Lestrade smiled, and moved toward the sofa. “Come sit down with me.”

The conversation flowed along, sometimes uneasy and forced, but more often slow and contented, and sometimes lickety-split as both men lit up discussing some shared interest. Two glasses of aperitif were drunk, and then three. With the fourth Lestrade slipped his palm over Mycroft’s, stroking the soft skin on the back of his hand.

Mycroft’s eyes flared, and as Lestrade settled back into the sofa, Mycroft risked easing closer. Lestrade dipped a finger in his cup, and traced it over Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft sighed—and blindly placed his own glass on the table behind the sofa as Lestrade leaned even closer and licked the burning liqueur from his mouth. He pulled Lestrade’s glass closer, and took a tiny sip from the rim—then leaned even further in, gently pushing the glass aside as he offered his lips.

Lestrade set the glass aside and drew the other man close, then shared the sip, tongues tangling, tasting, tracing each other lightly. He gripped Mycroft’s upper arms, and felt a shudder run through the other man; heard him gasp before leaning further into their kiss.

It was as close to crazy porn sex as he could recall having, without the gymnastics or the hokier sound effects. It was a revelation: Mycroft was willing to enjoy their contact, and apparently dead-set determined to give Greg every chance to enjoy equally. It wasn’t that either led or followed—he’d have been hard put to choose who was dominant. Like some salsa, it was an open question who was dominant and who was submissive. Instead they both seemed to prowl and tease and touch, with retreats merely strategic plays to extend the time, or shift the dynamic.

For a time Mycroft rode high in Lestrade’s lap, suckling his neck, brushing his face against the faint stubble barely noticeable on his neck and cheeks. Another time Lestrade rolled them both and lay over Mycroft, pinning his arms back to the sofa and rolling his pelvis against Mycroft’s, chuckling as the other man gasped and whined and rocked up to meet him.

Eventually he felt Mycroft’s hands at his shirt placket, easing buttons from their button-holes. The strip began. He opened the neck of Mycroft’s shirt wide, then eased his hands up under the billowing fabric, stroking up and up, tickling his nipples, stroking the thin patch of hair in the center of his chest. The silk rode on the back of his knuckles, and pooled over his wrists, until he was able to glide it all over Mycroft’s head and slip it up his arms, over his elbows, and down to his wrists…where they had to pause, giggling like little children, as they located the cuff buttons and released Mycroft from his silken bondage.

Trousers followed, easily and quickly. Mycroft proved to be wearing loose, comfortable boxers, light and airy with nearly infinite room for a hand to slip inside and touch, stroke, explore. Lestrade, wearing tighter trousers, had gone with sleek cotton Y-fronts that gathered his package into a neat mound—or had before his erection rearranged everything. Mycroft traced cock and balls, enjoying the firm containment that held them secure between Lestrade’s legs. He liked the little damp spot he found near the waistband, where pre-come had seeped into the cotton. He twisted and slithered, moving to the floor, and curled himself between Lestrade’s legs, nuzzling the front of the pants and lipping slowly up the hidden cock contained inside.

Lestrade moaned and let his legs fall open. “You don’t have to…”

“Consider it foreplay,” Mycroft said. “Or not. We shall see where it all ends up….”

Lestrade could only moan agreement.

Mycroft was not terribly experienced, but he brought an endearing commitment and discipline to the attempt. He explored, trying to improve his technique even as his head bobbed over Lestrade’s groin. His tongue tickled on and around the fat hooded mushroom of Lestrade’s uncircumcised cock, gingerly pushing the foreskin back, and letting it slide up again.

Lestrade slipped his hand down to cup his own balls, stroking them through the tight cotton.

“Sorry,” Mycroft said, popping off long enough to speak. “I can…”

“No…you’re fine. Don’t have to do everything…”

“Ah.”

He returned to his labor, licking, sucking, teasing. After what even Lestrade had to admit was “too long,” he said, “I’m not that good at this.”

Lestrade said, apologetically, “Just good enough I want it to go on forever—not quite good enough to make that impossible.”

“I see,” Mycroft said, sounding very much as though he did, and as though he was filing the information away for future consideration. “Is there anything else you’d like to do?”

“Either get down on that sheepskin—or go to bed. Your pick.”

“The wool is itchier than I would have predicted. Bed.”

Lestrade grunted agreement, stood, then leaned over, pulling Mycroft up to his feet. They leaned into each other, chest to chest, groin to groin, and Mycroft started them in what proved to be a long, slow dance to the bedroom.

“Reminds me of school dances,” Lestrade murmured. “After the garage band gave up we’d turn the lights low and play records.” He nuzzled Mycroft’s neck, and nipped at his ear, hands cradling the round curves of his bum. “Slow dancing. They were still playing Van Morrison’s ‘Into the Mystic’ then.”

Mycroft made a small, querulous sound. “I am afraid I was a bit out of the loop in my teens,” he said…and then whined when Lestrade pulled away in horror, digging through his trousers left draped on the sofa, then flicking frantically at his smart phone. “What are you doing?”

“Repairing a glaring gap in your education,” Lestrade growled, and cued up his favorite live performance of the song. “Listen—close your eyes, ok? Smell the candles. Listen to the fire burn. Ok…” He started the music, then moved close, and closer still, cradling his new lover near.

“Ah,” Mycroft whispered as the rough voice sang the smooth, sweet music. “Ah,” he said again, as Lestrade turned music into caresses, dancing them to their waiting retreat. “Ahhhhh…”

“Slow dancing,” Lestrade whispered. Then he drew his lover down onto the bed, slipped his hands under the waistband of the boxers, stroked, touched. The music was trapped in Mycroft’s head, by then, and his mind was filled with the rise and fall of a boat, and the shimmer of water under a bright moon, and the lonely note of a fog horn. He moaned in answer to it all, piling up higher and higher inside him.

“Condoms? Lube?” Lestrade was gasping, as aroused as Mycroft.

“Dresser. What kind?”

“Do I give a fuck?” Lestrade sounded frantic, too needy to cope with choices. Mycroft snorted with laughter, then gasped as his lover gripped tight and tugged firm.

“Top or bottom?”

“Don’t care,” Mycroft said.

“Let’s skip the question, then,” Lestrade said. “Frot?”

Mycroft whined, unable to find the right words. “Just…just…” he couldn’t say more, gasping.

Lestrade slipped the boxers free, down Mycroft’s legs, Mycroft helping as much as he could. Soon the slip and ooze of lube and the power of a strong, square hand sent him into a world that was only need, and need met.

“Yes…fuck. Yes…”

It didn’t matter who said what, then—not that either said all that much.

“Nnnnnggg.”

“Harder. No—harder! Oh, fuck, yes…”

“Ouch.”

“Sorry…”

“Just keep going…”

“Getting close…”

“Stall. Not there yet.”

“Nggggg. Fuck… Here. Helps?”

“Ohmyfuckinggod…”

“Slut.” The chuckle was warm, though, and the touch tender and careful.

“Hell, yes.” Almost a prayer.

“Soon?”

“Soon. Go for it.”

And then they were there, falling off the cliff, tumbling down to the shining sea, into the mystic, no idea who toppled first, wailing a sweet, smoky sax duet as they fell.

 

“There are wipes on the bedside table,” Mycroft said, when he could finally speak again.

“Thanks.” Lestrade found the little plastic box of wet wipes. He pulled out several, warming them in his palms, then began cleaning them both carefully, tenderly. “That was incredible.”

“Flatterer,” Mycroft said, voice once again martini-dry and distant. “I clearly have much to learn.”

Lestrade grumbled, and sprawled beside his lover, snaking a hand up to cup his jaw. “That’s shite,” he said, gruffly. “I don’t care about how obsessive you want to be—damn. Expertize isn’t half as sexy as desire, idiot.”

Mycroft, face suddenly worried, said, more softly, “I’m not an idiot,” in a voice that turned it into a question without meaning to.

“I mean it, Mike. The whole damn night—it was all gorgeous. But not because it was perfect, just because you wanted to…” Lestrade faltered, and buried his face against his lover’s collarbone. More softly, more helplessly, he said, “You wanted so much for it to make me happy.”

Mycroft looked down at the silver hair, a near-velvet nap at the back of Lestrade’s neck. He risked raising his hand, stroking the solid cup of his lover’s skull. Lestrade murmured in response, a soft, grunting sound like a happy pup hovering just short of sleep. “Of course I wanted you to be happy,” Mycroft said, voice shaky and unsure. “I told you how I am. Nothing by halves.” He paused then. His voice shook harder. “I love you, you see. All or nothing. It could have gone either way, I suppose, but in the end there really wasn’t a question left.”

Lestrade was silent for so long that a less observant man than Mycroft might have thought he’d fallen asleep. Only later, much later, did he say, hesitantly, “No dead bunny-wabbits?”

Mycroft smiled a bit wistfully in the dark, knowing his lover could not see him. “No bets. If you don’t love me—if you leave me—it may be wabbits up to your eyebrows. I’m not sure what I’ll do if you don’t love me, too.”

The order, to Lestrade, seemed all wrong. You dated. You made out. You screwed. You moved in together. Then, somewhere along the line, you said, “I love you.” But, then, he’d done it that way once, and it had ended in divorce. He’d worked with this man for over a decade. He’d courted him, along odd paths and with silent patience, for longer than he’d let himself realize. And he’d won—not a brass ring, but a golden crown. He sighed and smiled, and the arm around Mycroft’s waist pulled tight.

“I love you, too,” he said, softly. “But if you’re ever afraid I’m losing that—serve me some hasenpfeffer as a reminder, before you start leaving the wabbits on the doorstep?”

Mycroft smiled—then chuckled. “Hasenpfeffer it is,” he said, softly. “But it will be a whole rabbit.”

“Nothing by halves?”

“Exactly,” he said.

And then they slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Hasenpfeffer is a classic German-tradition dish made with rabbit or hare. Lestrade is asking that before Mycroft go on a rampage in the style of Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, he first try reminding Lestrade of the outcome by presenting a more civilized and delectable meal. Many of you will have understood that--but those who are not familiar with the dish deserve to know the implied joke.


End file.
